“My dear,” he said, “you're the only successful piece of work I've ever turned out in my life. Please allow me to have some artistic satisfaction--and you have been worth a gold-mine to me.” Thus each was comforted. Jimmie settled down to his pipe and a book, Aline sat over her sewing--the articles to which she devoted her perennial industry were a never solved mystery to him--and they spent a pleasant evening. The inevitable topic naturally arose in conversation. They discussed the princess's visit, the great question--how was she to be received? “The best thing you can do,” said the practical Aline, “is to go to Mrs. Deering to-morrow and get properly coached.” Jimmie looked at her in admiration. “You are worth your weight in diamonds,” he said. “I will.” He carried out his project, and not only did he have the pleasure of finding Connie at home undisturbed by strange tea-drinking women, but Norma Hardacre came in soon after his arrival. The two ladies formed themselves into a committee of advice, and sent Jimmie home with most definite notions regarding the correct method of receiving Serene Highnesses. He also brought Aline the news that the committee would honour him with a visit the following morning, accompanied by Mrs. Hardacre, who had been pleased to express a desire to see his pictures. The appointed hour came, and with it the ladies. Mrs. Hardacre's lips smiled sweetly at the man who was to be taken up by a duchess and to paint the portrait of a princess. She declared herself delighted with the studio and professed admiration for the pictures. “Are they all really your own, Mr. Padgate?” she asked, turning towards him, her tortoise-shell lorgnon held sceptre-wise. “I'm afraid so,” answered Jimmie, with a smile. “Sometimes I wish they were not so much my own.” “But I should feel quite proud of them, if I were you,” said the lady, desirous to please. Connie broke into a laugh, and explained that Jimmie had implied a regret that they had found no purchasers. Mrs. Hardacre sniffed. She did not like being laughed at, especially as she had gone out of her way to be urbane. This was unfortunate for Jimmie; for though he strove hard to remove the impression that he had consciously dug a pit of ridicule for her entrapment, Mrs. Hardacre listened to his remarks with suspicion and became painfully aware of the shabbiness of his coat. Presently she regarded one of the portraits--that of a pretty, fluffy-haired woman. “Dear me,” she remarked somewhat frigidly, “that is Mrs. Marmaduke Hewson.” Jimmie, in the simplicity of his heart, was delighted. “Yes. A most charming lady. Do you know her?” “Oh, no; I don't know her, but I know of her.” Her stress on the preposition signified even deeper and more far-reaching things than the nod of Lord Burleigh in the play. “What do you know of her?” asked Jimmie, bluntly. Mrs. Hardacre smiled frostily, and her lean shoulders moved in an imperceptible shrug.